Wink Murderer
by bookgodess15
Summary: Yet another fic where Chase is secretly a gay, mentally deranged serial killer. Nothing new here. Been done to death.


**Notes: **This is the craziest thing I've ever written. Total crack. A huge, enormous, incredibly heartfelt thank you to my beta **oroburos69** for editing this massive thing despite her final exams. She's amazing. And a goddess.

* * *

><p><strong>Wink Murderer<strong>

It started with a wink.

House had been standing in the hallway, supervising his underlings as they worked (what other purpose did glass walls have in a hospital?), making sure that the patient wasn't exhibiting some weird behavior that his team was too stupid to miss. He'd also been making sure that he was on hand to loudly berate his underlings should anything go wrong, generally being omnipresent in order to encourage fear and terror in his team—all things he was very prone to doing—when it had happened.

Chase had _winked_.

At the patient, to be precise. Not at his boss, or Cameron, or an inanimate object, because if Chase's eye had closed while facing anyone other than the patient House would have called it a tic and that would have led to a whole other path of mental differential diagnosis. But Chase had winked at the patient.

The patient was Peter McGirr, a young tenor in a high-class chorus based in New York City. His haircut probably cost as much as House's piano. And Chase had winked at him.

Flies can smell death several hours before an animal actually dies. Sharks can smell blood from miles away. House, just as keen a predator as flies and sharks, pounced that very night.

oOo

"You're gay," House said, whacking Chase on the back of the head as he passed.

Chase blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Gay," House repeated. "You. Liking men. And not telling me."

"House, that's—that's a completely inappropriate—"

"So you don't deny it?" House asked.

"Wha—yes!" Chase spluttered. "Yes, I deny it!"

"Lies. I saw you."

Chase stared at him, utterly bewildered.

House raised an eyebrow. "Winking at our delightful patient."

Chase's mouth opened, but no words left. He shook his head once, twice, and then brought a hand up to his face. "Oh my god."

"That's right!" House crowed, leveling a victorious finger at him. "You were caught!"

"House, I like women."

"You're gay."

"This is absurd. I'm not gay."

"I have proof."

"What you have is too much time on your hands and a disturbing interest in my personal life. I'm leaving now."

"You, Robert Chase, are gayer than a handful of rainbows and rugby players, and you're going to admit it!"

"Leaving."

"Gay!"

"Leaving!"

oOo

As Cameron passed House's office on her way to the conference room, she noted the music that was already blasting. It sounded a little …showtune-y …compared to what House usually listened to.

"What's up with the music?" she asked Chase as she hung up her jacket.

Chase, sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and the newspaper, shrugged.

"_If you were queer! I'd still be here!"_

"This isn't his type of music, is it?" Cameron tried again.

"He's listened to it five times, now," was Chase's unperturbed response.

"_So what should it matter to me, what you do in bed with guys?"_

Cameron sighed. Maybe it had something to do with the patient they'd discharged yesterday.

oOo

"You're gay."

Chase looked as if he was just barely holding in a groan. "House. Give me the file."

"Admit it," House demanded.

Chase made a grab for the file and managed to get two fingers on it. "I'm not gay."

House tugged. "Gay."

Chase tugged back. "Not."

"Gay."

"Not."

"Gay."

"House!"

oOo

For the second morning in a row, House was listening to music. Different song this time, though.

"_Just 'cause I'm on the cheerleading team, or my birthday party had a Broadway theme..."_

"Again?" Cameron asked.

Chase shrugged.

"Is it on repeat?"

Chase nodded.

"_And the clouds in the sky spell F-A-G..."_

"Great," Cameron muttered, while racking her brain to remember if she still had earplugs somewhere in her apartment.

oOo

"Chase is gay."

Wilson glanced up. "Still working on that whole 'knocking' thing, I see."

"That would imply that I hold some kind of respect for what you do in your office, and I really don't," House replied, settling himself onto Wilson's couch. "Also, Chase is gay. In case you missed that with all the self-righteousness."

Wilson bent his head down, going back to his paperwork. "Can you have your midlife sexuality crisis somewhere else, please? I've already heard how great his ass is a thousand times—"

"I never said _I_ was gay," House interrupted, annoyed. "Chase. _Chase_ is gay."

"You talk about his ass a lot, House," Wilson said mildly, without looking up. "And his hair. And his mouth."

"Well—not now that he's actually gay!"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "So you'll leave him alone, from now on?"

"See, that's the other thing," House said. "He won't admit to it."

Wilson stopped writing and brought his head up, staring.

"What?"

"Oh my god," Wilson muttered. He dropped his pen and put his head in his hands.

"What!"

"House, I swear to god. One of these days…"

"He's gay!" House protested, sitting up a bit. "I swear I saw him—he winked!"

"Leave Chase alone. Please. I don't have time to sit through interviews right now."

"Seriously! He's gay! Rainbows-and-sparkles-everywhere gay!" House insisted.

Wilson looked up at him with no small degree of exasperation. "House."

"Hundred bucks," House said quickly. "Hundred bucks says I can get him to admit that he's gay."

"If you torment him enough, he'll admit to anything. It's Chase. The kid with no spine. Remember?"

"The same kid who went to Vogler about me, and then told me to 'deal with it'," House pointed out.

Wilson considered this.

"He's got a spine," House said, and then as an afterthought added, "Somewhere."

Wilson opened his mouth for a second, then closed it when no arguments came to mind.

"Hundred bucks," House repeated. He held up his wallet, wiggling it a little. "He's gay."

"He's not gay," Wilson sighed.

"My god, you sound just like him."

oOo

For the third morning in a row, House was blaring music. Cameron had brought her earplugs, this time.

"_What what, in the butt—I said, what what, in the butt..."_

"Morning," she said, nodding.

Chase kept his eyes on the crossword. "Morning."

"_You wanna do it in my butt? In my butt?"_

"I'm starting to notice a theme with the music," Cameron observed.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Chase replied calmly.

oOo

On the fourth morning, Cameron didn't even try to talk to Chase, House was blasting the music so loudly. She just nodded at him as she hung up her jacket and then went for the coffee machine.

"_It's okay to be gay—let's rejoice with the boys in the gay way..."_

It might have been Cameron's imagination, but Chase looked ever so slightly strained as he focused on his crossword puzzle. She wondered if he hadn't considered earplugs yet, or if it was some sort of sign of weakness in his eyes. She caught his attention and pointed to the yellow bits of foam sticking out from her ears.

Chase rolled his eyes and went back to his crossword puzzle.

Slightly hurt, Cameron looked over to where House was reclined in his chair, apparently having the nap of his life.

"_Some brotherly love is a pleasure for all..."_

oOo

When House hit day five with no confession, he knew it was time to step up his game. Twelve hours later, after stealing Wilson's car keys, making a phone call and having a somewhat hassled meeting in a Starbucks, House was parked a few cars down from Chase's apartment and watching eagerly. He'd brought binoculars just in case he hadn't been able to get a close enough spot. Fortunately, they hadn't been necessary.

He'd asked for someone in their late twenties with great hair and blue eyes, which was essentially a description of Peter McGirr, because House had no idea how Chase liked his men other than charming and expensive. Jamie fit the bill pretty well. He was obviously a grad student and his clothes were a little preppy, but with the nightmarish wardrobe combinations that Chase usually showed up in, House doubted that it would matter. This was going to go exactly the way he knew it would, regardless of what Jamie was wearing.

Jamie glanced around once before knocking on Chase's door, then proceeded to brush absolutely nothing off of his jacket as he waited for an answer.

House drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

The door opened slowly, and Chase stuck only his head out at first. Jamie proffered his hand, and Chase did a not-too-subtle sweep up and down the street (but unfortunately, his eyes were only seeking Corvettes and motorcycles, not Volvos), and then blatantly did not shake Jamie's hand.

House couldn't hear what was being said, but from the expression on Chase's face, he was willing to bet that it was something along the lines of: "Oh, how nice of my boss to send me some action tonight. I'll have to thank him tomorrow. Why don't you come in, and we'll get right to the raging buttsex, yeah?"

Perhaps with one or two deviations.

Jamie held his ground fairly well as Chase went all 'put-upon-woe-is-me' and tried to send him away, and when Chase pointed to the street, Jamie advanced, using one hand to grasp Chase's and lower it to his side, and the other to settle carefully on Chase's shoulder.

Chase shook his head, eyes wide.

Jamie grinned, and wiggled his eyebrows as he spoke.

"Trapped rabbit" would perhaps best describe Chase's expression.

Jamie's hands brushed all over Chase's body as he spoke—hair out of the eyes, a brief squeeze of the shoulder, a tap under the chin—and Chase's defenses were visibly breaking down as he shook his head again and again. Back in the car, House curled his toes in glee. This was it. A hundred bucks and eternal lording glory over Chase were going to be his in the next thirty seconds. Why hadn't he thought to bring a video camera? This would have been solid gold to leave on repeat in all of PPTH's waiting rooms.

And then Chase hesitated in shaking his head, just for a second, and that was apparently all Jamie needed because suddenly his hands were on Chase's hips and he was bringing Chase in for a kiss.

"Gotcha," House breathed.

Victory came moments later, when Chase's arm suddenly snaked their way up Jamie's back and his head tilted, inclining, beginning to fight for dominance. He broke the kiss long enough to gasp something, but Jamie laughed and steered them towards the door as he captured Chase's mouth again. They stumbled inside, and one of them slammed the door shut behind them.

House was grinning madly as he rooted around the passenger seat, looking for his cell phone in the accumulation of papers, coffee cups and assorted gloves and scarves. He couldn't wait to tell Wilson. Pillows were being bitten at the Chase residence tonight, and he'd—

Tap-tap.

House raised his eyes, to discover a police officer standing on the sidewalk, peering into his car. It was then, with a sudden swoop of dread, that House noticed the parking meter.

oOo

"You steal my car and then you get a _parking ticket?_"

"Keep your hair on, it's not like I gave them your driver's license. Now cough up. I've got a ticket to pay for."

"You didn't win the bet!"

"Uh, hello? Chase? Having sex with a dude last night? That means I win."

"He could still be bisexual."

"...bisexual?"

"Yes. That thing where you like guys and girls. House, the only way you're going to win this is by verbal confession."

"No, see, you bet that Chase was straight, and if he's bisexual then—"

"Nice try. I said he wasn't gay, not that he was straight."

"Wait, you knew that he wasn't straight?"

"Is it relevant?"

"You _knew?_"

"No."

"Liar!"

"House, go away."

oOo

House had been eying Chase (who was documenting lab tests they'd utilized on their last case, or something of that sort) for the last few minutes as he let yet another song play. He glanced at the Gay Playlist he'd assembled over the weekend, and noted that he was almost all the way through it. He'd have to hit up the internet again tonight to keep the content fresh.

"Chase!" he barked, over the song currently playing.

"_I've never been a king, I've always been a queen..._"

Chase looked up and turned around, with an expression that could perhaps be described as blatantly miserable.

House pointed to his desk.

With a shoulder-lifting sigh, Chase pushed his chair back and stood up. House felt a small surge of pleasure as Chase's face became visible, displaying a delightful combination of misery and dread. House barely refrained from cackling as Chase pushed the door open. Instead he used his hand to beckon Chase closer, closer, closer, until he was right in front of the desk.

"So."

House let it hang there for a while, until Chase's expression had become quite baleful. Good. He wanted a bit of spitfire before he got his confession.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," House finally said, nodding at him.

Chase scowled. "What for?"

"I got you laid last night, didn't you?" House pointed out.

"I sent the poor guy away!" Chase said, with what was a very bad attempt at incredulity. "You can't just hire a hooker and expect—"

"Liar. I was watching."

"You were _watching?_"

House nodded, pleased with himself.

Chase's mouth hung open for several moments before he collected himself and shut it. He straightened, folding his arms over his chest. "I maintain that nothing happened."

"Are you serious?"

"You were imagining things."

"Chase, come on. Even I didn't think you were this stupid."

"Nothing happened," Chase repeated.

House stared at him incredulously. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Trust me," Chase sighed. "It's just—easier. Leave it alone."

"What's easier?" House demanded.

"I'm going home," Chase said, turning around and starting to walk away.

House scrambled for his cane. "I don't think so, Fabio. Get back here."

Chase didn't answer, hurrying into the next room and grabbing his jacket and bag (which, House noted as he finally found his cane, had already been packed and ready to go). House decided to let him go, instead watching his hasty retreat down the hallway with narrowed eyes. Something was definitely up with Chase, and it went way beyond simply being in denial about his sexuality. More complex things were abound. He'd have to get to the bottom of it.

oOo

Chase avoided eye contact the following morning. Amusingly, for the first time in the history of his employment, Chase was actually reading the newspaper. The obituaries section. God knew why, but Chase was reading it studiously any time House was in the conference room.

"Chase!"

Chase nearly knocked over his cup of coffee.

"Clinic hours. Now."

"Actually," Cameron began, "I wanted to—"

"Going," Chase interrupted, practically fleeing the room.

House smiled.

oOo

Breaking into Chase's apartment had been a simple matter of riffling through Chase's bag for a keyring, making some excuse about forgetting popsicle sticks for the birdcage he was building for Cuddy, and then doing a quick check for nosy neighbors before sliding the key into the top lock and letting himself in.

Chase's apartment was unassuming and small, but clean. A lone coffee cup sat in the sink, rinsed clean to prevent rings, and as House stepped past the kitchen and into the small living area that contained nothing more than a small couch, a television and a desk, the cleanliness theme continued. The picture frames, containing not the faces of friends but Aboriginal artwork, were perfectly straight. The rays of light shining in through the window illuminated not a single dust particle. A faint lemon scent followed House all the way into the bedroom, where he found the first sign of humanity.

An unmade bed.

A rather large, unmade bed, and a half-empty glass of water on a coaster next to the bed. The covers had only been thrown back on one side, though, indicating the Chase had slept alone last night.

This determined, House let his eyes slide around the rest of the room, which contained another Aboriginal painting ("Like you actually miss Australia," House muttered under his breath, to no one in particular), a door that led to frighteningly white bathroom, a closet, and a bookcase.

House wasn't sure what, exactly, he was looking for, but he was sure that Chase was hiding something. Most people tended to hide things in their closets. Chase did tend to think in odd ways, so perhaps not, but it was worth a look anyway. He also had about four hours until Chase was done with his clinic duty, which was more than enough time to scour every inch of this apartment.

The closet revealed a box of photographs, most of which featured a young Chase with floppy white-blonde hair and sun-kissed cheeks, as well as a box of miscellaneous cables, wires and assorted technology things. He also had a suitcase, and a small collection of old video game systems—the kind that you could fix by opening up the flap and blowing really hard. No home videos, porn collection, or hidden sex toy cupboard. The latter was the idea he'd latched on to, somewhere over the course of exploring the closet. House was certain that Chase had one somewhere, and he was also certain that it wasn't exactly dusty.

House's next pursuit was under the bed, which revealed nothing more exciting than the fact that Chase regularly vacuumed under his bed. He gave the bathroom a once-over, checked the medicine cabinet and the drawers under the sink, but those didn't turn up anything either.

Almost ready to call the bedroom clear and move on to the living room, House took a second look at the bookcase. It was the only thing in the room other than the bed that was in a partial state of disarray—sort of. Mainly, the books were in no discernible order. Rohen's Atlas sat next to a comparatively squat collection of Lord of the Rings DVDs, which was sitting next to a yellowed copy of _House of Leaves_. House's eyes skimmed the rows of titles, mentally crossing off title, author, publishing house, copyright date, color, subject and time of acquisition as possible methods of organization.

As House continued to study the books, he briefly reflected that this was some kind of inversion of roles, as his mind attempted to follow Chase's twisted logic. They were in some kind of order. They had to be. The bathroom was a freaking advertisement for bleach, the books had to be in order.

His eyes were skimming the titles for the third or fourth time when he caught sight of a yellow binding entitled _Complete Piano Sonatas, Vol. 1_, which made him pause. Not in surprise at the idea that Chase might know how to play the piano, but at the fact that the book was much, much, thinner than the copy that he'd practiced out of for years. A good half-inch too thin.

House grabbed the book and was surprised to find that it weighed almost nothing—there were no pages. They'd been cut out.

Inside, there was a loose collection of papers and newspaper clippings. The top one had a headline that read:**Short Hills Man Missing Four Days Now**, dated to last next one had been printed off of a computer, with a headline reading **Princeton Man's Foot Found After Three Days**, dated almost a year ago. Then a rather large cluster from a year and a half ago, just before House had hired Chase, which included headlines such as **Police Find Blood of Missing Artist at Gay Bar, Cardiologist Reported Missing, **and **NYPD Searches for Man Originally Labeled Runaway**.

The articles before that were from Australian newspapers, but all had the same theme—men, generally the same age as Chase, being reported missing or dead.

House flipped through them rapidly, taking in the dozens of dates with rising alarm. 2003, 2000, 1998, 1997, 1994... They dated all the way back to 1993, when a twenty-year-old seminary student had initially been declared missing but had been reassigned status as a runaway. The last person to have seen him had been his fellow student, Robert Chase.

Holding the folder gingerly, House sat down on the bed and began to read about the events that had transpired eleven years ago in a seminary in Perth.

oOo

"I have a hypothetical question," House announced, plopping down on Wilson's couch.

Wilson stopped typing. "I think there's still some spots open in that knocking class. Want me to check?"

"Hypothetically speaking—"

"I'll even pay the tuition."

House gave him a plaintive look. "Ha. Ha. Ha. Hypothetically speaking, if you slept with Nurse Angie—"

"House."

"Well, okay, that's not the hypothetical part, but bear with me here—say you slept with her, and in the morning while you were searching for ingredients for your make-you-need-me pancakes, you came across a folder."

"In the cupboard?" Wilson asked.

"Yes," House said, giving him an annoyed look. "Next to the needy flour and the needy chocolate chips."

"I might point out that I make you pancakes all the time, House."

"_Anyway_. Say that in this folder there were ten years' worth of newspaper clippings about men who had gone missing. And they were never found, except for an occasional blood smear or a hand or something. Like, at least fifty different men. What would you think?"

Wilson stared. "House, what the hell? Probably that I should get myself out of there as soon as possible, and never be alone with her again."

"So it's a safe assumption to make that she's a serial killer?" House asked.

"Where are you going with this?"

House raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I …might have the same encounter with Chase."

"You _slept_ with Chase?" Wilson demanded.

"Don't be stupid," House said, rolling his eyes. "I was snooping around his apartment."

Wilson sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck. "You broke into his apartment. And you found what?"

"A hidden folder of newspaper clippings about dead men. Twenty bucks says Chase is a serial killer."

"House, I'm sure that there's a logical explanation for this."

House raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean that you're in?"

"For what, a bet?" Wilson asked. "Sure. Add that to the hundred bucks you owe me over Chase's sexuality."

"If he's a serial killer, his sexuality is completely irrelevant," House countered.

"That depends on whether or not he gets sexual gratification from the act of killing," Wilson said.

"Someone's been watching _Criminal_ _Minds_ too much."

"If it bothers you that much, you should turn him in to the police," Wilson suggested.

"I did mention the part where the bodies were never found, right?"

oOo

House watched Chase like a hawk for the next few days. He also stopped playing his Gay Playlist, with the newfound paranoia that Chase might kill him in the middle of the night. The stopping of the playlist was probably for the best, because towards the end of it, he'd noticed the appearance of a purple white board marker, a collection of rainbow post-it notes, and a coffee mug with two male stick figures and two female stick figures holding hands, each surrounded by hearts. The coffee mug had disappeared for a day, and then returned the following morning, only to disappear again.

While Foreman and Cameron continued their silent, passive-aggressive fight over whether or not he was suffering a mid-life sexuality crisis, House bothered Wilson a bit and took on a patient, but mostly watched Chase, who continued his new hobby of actually reading the newspaper instead of just doing the crossword puzzles. He'd taken to reading the New York Times, for whatever reason. Things went smoothly for about a week, until House woke up from a nap and glanced over at the conference room to find Chase _cutting something out of the newspaper._

He was instantly on alert. But not in an obvious way. Subtly. House laid back in his chair, propping his feet back up and cracking his eyes open just enough so that he could watch.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Chase set the scissors on the table, folded the article into his pocket, and then rose to leave the room. House stayed perfectly still as Chase walked down the hallway, and then for a good five minutes after that to make sure that Chase hadn't simply gone to use the bathroom, or something of that rot.

When he was reasonably sure that Chase was not returning, House's eyes snapped open. He snatched up his cane and made it into the conference room in record time, intent on the newspaper that Chase had left behind.

oOo

Upon obtaining his own copy of the New York Times, House found himself staring at an article about the very man who had started this: Peter McGirr.

More specifically, an article about his recent disappearance.

oOo

It was lucky that House had the Gameboy on mute (stupid Donkey Kong music) because otherwise he'd have never heard Chase wake up—the only indication he got was the sound of Chase's head shifting on the pillow, and by the time he looked up Chase's eyes were fluttering open. As Chase blinked and did the whole Confused Aussie act, House's eyes went back down to his Gameboy, where he was currently catching bananas in the air after being shot out of a canon.

He was halfway through the level by the time Chase managed a groggy, "House?"

"Yep."

"Did you drug my coffee?"

"That I did."

"And you had me admitted?"

"You had a seizure. Cameron almost cried."

"Oh my god."

House paused the game and finally looked up.

Chase was rubbing at his face with his hand. "House, for the last time, I'm not—"

"Gay," House finished. "I've heard."

Chase groaned.

"However, that isn't why I drugged you this morning."

"Christ," Chase muttered. He pushed himself up a little, hand going to the side of the bed no doubt in search of the nurse call button. "I'm not going to listen to..."

A pause.

"House, why is there a hole where the call button should be?"

House smiled. "Oops."

Chase's response was to calmly grip the blood pressure monitor on his finger, grab the wire leading to it with his fist, and rip the wire out of the device. The monitor let out a long, unbroken screech.

House blinked, admittedly not having seen that one coming. "Nice."

"Put it back on," a voice snapped from behind, and House turned around to see a nurse in green scrubs glaring at them. "Now. You think we want to hear that out at the station?"

Chase blinked. "Uh. Sorry. It, uh, ripped?"

"What do you mean, it ripped?" the nurse demanded, marching into the room. "How'd you rip it?"

"Can you make him leave?" Chase asked, gesturing at House.

"Can you not deliberately destroy hospital property?" the nurse shot back, picking up the frayed end of the wire. "Don't think you're not getting charged for this, mister. Do you know how much these things cost?"

"Yes. Eighty-eight dollars and some change, but the hospital buys them in bulk for about fifty a piece," Chase said irritably. "I'll pay for it, whatever—make him go away."

"Not if you're gonna be a smartass," the nurse said grouchily, reaching up and switching off the monitor. "You can put up with him for as long as it takes me to get you a new one of these, and then I'll see if I'm in the mood to call security."

She pulled the wire out of the monitor and wound it around her hand, then plucked the other end from Chase's hand before marching out of the room to an astonished silence.

"I believe this is what the kids nowadays are calling an 'epic fail'," House said, most pleased.

Chase scowled, slouching back down into his bed. "I'm not listening to you."

"Uh-huh. Anyway, where was I before you went and made enemies with the every single nurse on this floor?"

"It was just one," Chase muttered.

"Give it an hour."

Chase said nothing in response.

"So where wa—oh! Right, right, right. So. I have moved on from your blatant denial of your sexuality—let us now turn to the issue of you being a serial killer."

Chase rolled his eyes. "House."

"You want to know what gave it away?"

"Do tell."

"The stack of newspaper clippings you have hidden in the piano book in your bedroom."

This pronouncement made Chase go very, very still. When he spoke, after a long moment of silence, his voice was off.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

House switched the GameBoy off and set it down. "You can't lie for shit. Try again."

Chase licked his lips, head turning away from House on the pillow. He was silent.

"I'll take your silence as an admission of guilt, then."

"I'm not a serial killer."

"You want to give me an alternate explanation?" House asked.

Chase rolled onto his side so that his back was facing House.

"What was the name of your first victim—do you remember?" House paused, and when he got no reaction, he went on. "Ezra Leucke. Age nineteen. He was in the seminary with you, and you told the administration that he ran away, but that isn't what happened, is it?"

No reply.

"Did you kill him?"

Still no reply.

"What about Peter McGirr? What'd you do to him?"

Silence.

House, beginning to get annoyed, poked Chase in the back. "Is he dead?"

"Probably," Chase muttered at last.

"Probably? What does probably mean?"

"Where the hell did that nurse go?" Chase asked, rolling over and pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"Uh, yeah. I don't think she's gonna be back for a while," House said.

Chase exhaled, clearly frustrated.

"I'll discharge you if you tell me what's going on," House offered.

"I'll discharge myself," Chase said under his breath, going for the IV taped to the back of his hand.

"Whoa, okay—"

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to you badger me about things that have absolutely nothing to do with—House! Ouch—dammit—"

Chase tried to wrest his arm away, but House knew exactly where to grab to make the cannula plunge in deeper and twist right into the tendons.

"Ah—ow—_dammit!_" Chase swore, pinning his hand to his stomach and curling in on himself. "_Fuck!_"

House withdrew his hand. "Tell me what's going on."

"You wouldn't believe me anyway," Chase said through gritted teeth. "Fuck, what the fuck did you do?"

"Oh, you big baby. Give it here."

"No!"

"Chase, I've been a doctor for longer than you've been masturbating. I guarantee you, whatever's going on with you, I've heard it before. Also, give me your hand."

House made a grab for it, but Chase pulled back.

"Trust me," Chase said. "If you've heard this one before, it was shortly before writing a psych referral slip."

"At least then you'd be admitted for a real illness," House replied.

Chase sighed and finally took his hand away from his stomach, cautiously examining it. House grabbed his wrist and took a look for himself.

A dark bruise had already formed, and the cannula was definitely no longer in the vein.

"Your fingers feel funny?" House asked, tapping on the tops of Chase's fingers. "Twingy?"

"That's not even a word."

"Do. They. Twinge."

"A little." Chase's voice was bordering on petulant.

House studied the IV cannula for a second longer, and then carefully started peeling the tape back. "So. You've got a five minute amnesty period, where I believe every word that comes out of your mouth, and the first three minutes are already up. Go."

"What? I'm not telling you anyth—ouch!"

House smirked. "Two minutes and thirty seconds."

"There's a—there's a _thing_. It's very, uh, protective of me. When it comes to men. Back in the seminary, in Perth, Ezra wasn't treating me very nicely, so it... removed him. That's what it does. Removes people."

The tape off, House went for the gauze above Chase's bed. "It? What is this, some weird government agency?"

"No. It's not something... normal."

"Normal?"

"Normal," Chase repeated.

House pushed down slightly with the gauze, counted down, then slid the cannula out. Chase hissed, and the back of his hand darkened considerably. House had done a little more damage than he'd intended. Oops.

"Here—hold that down. Not normal, like not human?"

Chase held the gauze in place, but his eyes narrowed. "You think I'm crazy."

House glanced at his watch. "Yep. Your amnesty period was up ten seconds ago."

"Fine. Whatever." Chase closed his eyes. "I'm a serial killer, go turn me in."

"Nope."

Chase sighed. "House, I'm really too tired to—"

"I don't think you're a serial killer," House interrupted.

"But you think I'm crazy."

"Chase. If some supernatural demon is killing all the men in your life who harass you, don't you think I'd be dead right now?" House pointed out.

"No." Chase wrinkled his nose. "I'd never date you."

"What? Why not?" House wasn't sure why he felt slightly offended by that.

"Well, you're _old_ for one thing."

House rolled his eyes. "On the other hand, I'm the one without fifty dead boyfriends. Makes me far more appealing than you could ever hope to be."

Chase scowled. "Whatever. I'm checking myself out AMA. My resignation will be on your desk by tomorrow morning."

He started to get up, but House grabbed his arm. "I don't think so. You're not going anywhere without something for that hand."

"I don't—"

"And there's no way you're quitting because you haven't been this interesting since you squealed to Vogler," House added.

"That's …just great."

"I knew you'd see it my way. C'mon, Sybil, let's get you a splint."

oOo

"What do you want?"

"You've been brooding in your office for hours, House. It's almost eight."

"So what are you doing here? Having a slumber party with the cancer kiddies?"

"I have a conference call with someone in London in about an hour. Did you eat?"

"Not hungry."

"You want me to buy you something?"

"Not hungry."

A pause.

"I noticed that Chase was running around the clinic with his arm all bandaged up. I thought you just slipped something in his coffee?"

"He attempted to take out his own IV, nicked a nerve."

"You weren't using it as a technique to subdue him? Make him stop struggling and start listening to you?"

"That's not even a little bit true."

"Right."

"Do you have a reason for being here? I'm sure you have less broody friends you could be bothering right now."

"Did you get anything out of Chase this afternoon?"

"I'm not sure."

"On which count—the gay count, or the serial killer count?"

"Both. I'm going to go do some detective work in about twenty minutes, I'll get back to you after that."

"What did Chase tell you?"

"He spun some story about how all the men in his life keep getting killed by demons. It was all very tragic, blah blah blah..."

"Demons?"

"Demons."

"Are we going to get a third bet running on whether or not Chase is mentally deranged?"

"I'll get back to you on that."

oOo

House reached out and punched the elevator button with his cane, and then hit the door-close button before someone annoying and drunk could join him. _"I'm working out of the Hyatt tonight—big golf conference going on, lots of old rich men to keep me busy—hehehehe—so drop by around nine and we can talk before I hit the bar," _Jamie had said over the phone. House had plans to find out what had happened that night between him and Chase, just to be sure, and then maybe ask him to have another go at it. Prove to Chase that not everyone he slept with was going to die.

Of course, there was the small problem that, given the stack of newspaper articles and the fact that Peter McGirr had disappeared less than a week after Chase had merely winked at him (at least, House was pretty sure that was all Chase had done). But there had to be some alternate explanation for this. There was no way that there was a _demon_, of all things, running around Princeton.

The elevator dinged, and the doors parted. House stepped off.

Besides, he wasn't going to pay Jamie to go after Chase. He would only remind him that Chase was rather lovely, and imply that he was currently in dire straits about his sexuality, and Jamie's personality was sure to do the rest. And once Chase realized that he'd just gotten a little overly paranoid for the past decade, he'd burst out of the closet, shooting rays of sunshine and rainbows, leaving House to collect his hundred dollars. And torment Chase for the rest of his time at PPTH.

"_Room 328. Sleeping with the manager has its perks, you know!" _Jamie had added brightly, when House had expressed his disbelief that Jamie actually had a hotel room of his own.

The toe of a shoe was sticking out of room 328, keeping the door propped open, no doubt so that House could let himself in. He paused for a moment, but didn't hear any panting or moaning, so he figured that it was safe to go in.

He was in no way prepared for what he found inside.

_A Scattering of Jamie_, an artist might have titled it.

Perhaps that was a slight overstatement. Really, only Jamie's arm was fully detached from his body. His neck had been torn into to the degree that his head was almost off, but the spinal cord had held it on pretty well. Jamie's torso had been gutted as well, many of the organs either missing or severely displaced. Blood was dark and wet on the carpeting, and it was still gently pulsing out of a jugular vein into a little pool that was forming among the ripped muscles of what had once been his neck.

This was as much detail as House absorbed before he heard a noise like a crab scuttling across a counter top, and jerked his head up to find a dark, hulking shape in the shadows of the closet next to where Jamie's corpse lie. Trails of blood followed. Two yellow eyes gleamed, like a cat's, and House's mouth went dry.

Definitely not human.

"Leave."

House caught a flash of large, bloodied teeth as it spoke, and that was more than enough for him.

oOo

"Go away." Chase attempted to slam the door shut, but House stuck his cane in the doorjamb.

"I don't think you're crazy," House said.

"Sure."

"I saw it," House went on. "Yellow eyes, ridiculous teeth, big and dark and scary?"

The door swung open. Chase was wide-eyed. "You _what?_ House, what did you do?"

"I'm not entirely certain," House said, subtly glancing around the mostly-deserted street. "Let me in, before it swoops down and rips the back of my neck out with its teeth."

The flash in Chase's eyes told him that he hadn't done a very good job of hiding the real worry in his voice.

"I don't think you'll be any safer in here," Chase muttered as he stopped back to let House in. "You think it hasn't killed people in front of me before?"

"If you think I'm gonna go sit alone in my apartment..."

Chase shut the door and locked it twice-over. "What did you do?"

House was quiet, taking in Chase's apartment in the evening. It was a lot less stark when there wasn't sunlight bouncing off everything.

"House?"

House sighed and headed for the refrigerator. "I had a meeting with your friend Jamie. The one you slept with a week ago," he clarified, at Chase's confused look. "Apparently, your Papa Bear demon didn't think too highly of him."

Chase went pale. "Christ."

"You have anything to drink?" House asked, opening the fridge. He peered inside. "Nope."

Chase had slid to the floor, with his head in his hands, but he looked up at House's words. "There's orange juice in the—"

"I meant alcohol, you ninny." House shut the fridge. "My god, you really are an altar boy."

"If you only came here to insult me, you can leave," Chase said bitingly.

"I'm buying a gun," House replied as he pulled out the jug of orange juice. "Might come in handy."

"Wow, House. That's fantastic. Now if only you were gay and wanted to sleep with me, things would be bloody perfect."

House raised an eyebrow at him.

"Glasses are above the sink," Chase muttered, glaring at him.

"It's never hurt you before?" House asked, changing the subject. "The—thing?"

"Nope."

House poured a glass and then returned the orange juice to the fridge. "This isn't some seminary demon-summoning thing gone wrong, is it? Some kind of bet involving old biblical texts?"

"I didn't _ask_ for it, if that's what you want to know," Chase said sullenly. "I don't know where it came from. It just showed up and started ripping Ezra apart."

"What was Ezra—actually, before I ask that, what's a guy named Ezra doing in a seminary?"

A weak smile flitted across Chase's face. "He was a rebel."

"Hm." House allowed himself a moment of amusement. "Anyway. What was Ezra doing to you, when it showed up?"

"Breaking up with me."

"Ah," House said. He took a sip of the orange juice.

"I should add that he broke up with me about once a week. I was a bit stupid, back then," Chase sighed.

House refrained from making the obvious joke. "And Peter McGirr, you winked at, correct?"

Chase nodded, closing his eyes.

"So how did it go from boys who were treating you badly, to boys that you even show a vague interest in?" House pressed.

"You're the one who read all the bloody articles," Chase said, not opening his eyes. "You tell me."

House didn't answer. Instead he took another swig of orange juice and leaned over, bumping the glass against Chase's forehead.

Chase wearily opened his eyes and took the glass.

"How's your arm?" House asked, as Chase drank.

Chase lowered the glass. "Twingy."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours."

"You took off the wrapping," House pointed out.

"You're the one who hurt it in the first place," Chase said irritably.

"Whine, whine, whine," House said, rolling his eyes. "So, does this mean that you're gay?"

Chase shrugged. "I guess. I've slept with girls before."

"Did you like it?"

"Not really. They didn't die afterward, though, so that was a perk."

"I think most people would consider that a perk."

Chase drained the last of the orange juice. "Right. So, is this what you came over here to do? Play twenty questions?"

"That, and I'm sleeping in your bed tonight."

Chase blinked. "Excuse me?"

"And you're sleeping on the couch," House added. "This is going to be the arrangement until I get a gun. Or a better security system."

Chase, looking incredulous, pushed himself to his feet. "Do you think that's going to keep you alive? Were you _lying_ when you said that you saw that thing? It killed Ezra right in front of me—it's killed loads of people right in front of me!"

House attempted to insert a protest, but Chase wasn't finished.

"If you hadn't been plotting with hookers behind my back just to win some stupid bet with Wilson, you would have never seen it. It's your own damn fault, and if it decides to kill you, there's nothing I can do about it," Chase said, folding his arms over his chest and giving House a defiant look.

"You knew—"

"Go home," Chase said curtly. "You're not sleeping here."

"Aw, c'mon. Your bedroom needs a little color anyway—red goes great with white," House said, tipping his head in the general direction of the bedroom.

Chase crossed across the kitchen and put the glass in the sink. "Until it dries to brown, and that hasn't been a good look since 1973."

"Says Mr. Fashion," House muttered.

"_Mr. Fashion_ dresses himself in the least attractive clothing possible to reduce the number of phone numbers he gets on a daily basis," Chase retorted.

House rolled his eyes. "And he's modest, too."

"Just keeping people alive." Chase said shortly. "Can you go, now?"

"To bed? Sure," House said. He started in the direction of the bedroom.

"You aren't sleeping in my bed!" Chase cried. "You can take the couch, if you're going to be such a pain the arse about it. Christ..."

He stalked off, muttering something under his breath that House couldn't quite make out.

"But I'm a cripple," he called after Chase, with no real conviction in his voice.

Chase replied by slamming the door shut.

oOo

Wilson, the big fat gossip that he was, turned up in House's office with chicken masala, rice and a container of naan, and waved their aromas around while House stood his ground and refused to say a word. For approximately two minutes.

"So what happened last night?" Wilson asked.

House stabbed an onion. "Detective work."

"I find 'detective work' to be a worryingly general term."

House shrugged, reaching to tear off a bit of naan.

"House."

"What are our running bets again?" House asked, only halfway sidestepping the question.

"You bet a hundred on Chase being gay and twenty on him being a serial killer." Wilson paused to take more rice. "And something about Chase being mentally deranged, also."

"_Definitely_ gay," House said, raising his eyebrows and doing a drawn-out nod, just for emphasis. "Sadly, though, he's not a serial killer, and he's not mentally deranged. So you owe me eighty."

"I'm not just handing you eighty bucks," Wilson snorted. "I want proof. What happened to the demons you said Chase was talking about?"

House waved his hand. "Error in communication. He said semen, I heard demon. His _semen_ is deadly. Some rare, Australian lizard disease he got as a kid."

"Deadly semen," Wilson repeated doubtfully.

House nodded.

"Right."

"Seriously. You should ask him about it."

"Wouldn't wearing a condom solve his problems?" Wilson asked.

House opened his mouth.

"And don't," Wilson added, leveling a finger at him, "try to tell me that his semen is acidic and burns through the latex."

"Pfft. Wilson. Rubber-burning jizz? What kind of scientific bullshit is that? That sounds like my ninth grade science project."

Wilson raised his eyebrows.

"My teacher didn't want his pH meter back, for some reason..."

"I don't believe you," Wilson said stonily.

"I think my mom still has the project somewhere up in the attic—"

"About Chase's deadly semen," Wilson interrupted, rolling his eyes.

"Well, that's your prerogative, isn't it?" House pointed out cheerily.

"I'm not paying you until I get proof. Also, do you have a water bottle somewhere? My mouth is on _fire_."

"You shouldn't have ordered it so hot," House said, while handing Wilson what was left of his morning coffee.

Wilson seized the mug. "I know you like it spicy."

"Always the martyr," House sighed, as Wilson choked on the cold black coffee and almost sprayed it all over House's desk.

oOo

House was about to knock when Chase's door swung open.

"Oh my God, House. Go away."

"Where are you going?" House demanded. "Hello? Did you forget that there's a hellish demon that's going to eat me any minute?"

"Yeah, and it's your own damn fault," Chase replied, sidestepping House and shutting the door behind himself.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"What about me?"

"Go rent some porn, make sure that you die happy."

House stared after Chase in amazement. And people called _him_ an asshole.

oOo

It turned out that Chase was going "out" to a gay nightclub called The Urge. And, reasonably, there was no way House was going to be able to get in (Chase, the asshole, had just flashed a card and been admitted without having to wait in the absurdly long line that stretched down the block). So he slouched down in the seat of his car, turned on the radio, and decided to wait.

He lasted about thirty minutes, before a blond and a brunet started humping against his car and his leg started to cramp.

"Off!" he yelled, pushing the car door open.

Giggling, the couple scurried off to go find a better location to rut against each other.

House rolled his eyes and limped around the car to the sidewalk, his brain attempting to devise a scheme that would get him into the club and near Chase—and therefore, in theory, give him some protection against the flesh-eating demon that was now out for his blood. Strains of music were coming out of the club, some techno mix that House didn't recognize, and the air smelled faintly of alcohol and marijuana.

Down the alleyway between the club and whatever unfortunate building was located next to it, a few people were… Well.

He counted three blowjobs, one fuck, and one dubious threesome.

But the threesome caught his eye at the last second, when the middle one staggered into a light being cast from the open fire exit door at the back of the club. Blond hair flashed under blue lights.

"Jesus Christ," House muttered.

He closed his eyes, counted to five, and then decided that his life was, in fact, worth this. And so he walked past the three blowjobs and the two men who were fucking, while decidedly _not_ hearing the chorus of "What What in the Butt" in his head, until he got to the threesome in the back. Chase was in the middle of two large, thickly-muscled men. The one with the shirt on appeared to have lost something down Chase's throat, and the one without a shirt seemed to be vigorously attempting to hide something up Chase's ass.

Hoo boy.

"Hey, blondie!" House barked.

Chase appeared to pause for a moment.

"Dr. Robert Chase," House said slowly, loudly. "Break it up."

A blink. A second blink. Eyes focused—kind of. "…House?"

The man without a shirt gave him a little shove. "In or out, chicken. Fuckin' keep up already."

"I said break it up," House ordered, whacking No Shirt in the shin with his cane. "Now! The creamy filling in your little Oreo sandwich here has already been claimed for the night."

"Fuck off, old man," No Shirt snapped.

"No, no, I should listen," Chase said. A lazy smile came over his face. "He's my boss. I have to do what he tells me."

His words were slow, pronounced, and pointed, and as he spoke, he disentangled himself from the two men.

"The cane's not just for decoration," House threw in, giving Chase a light whack.

"Fuck!" No Shirt swore. "Are you fucking kidding? I gave you good shit!"

Chase ignored him and shook himself over once, and then began to walk out of the alley. House kept up easily. Behind them, No Shirt was still yelling after them, but his friend appeared to be trying to drag him back inside, where they could find a substitute.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" Chase demanded through clenched teeth, not even looking at House as they walked. The easy sexuality that he'd been exuding a minute ago had vanished, and now he was quite clearly pissed.

"What was he talking about, good shit?" House asked. "Are you on drugs right now? Because I think drugs would seriously lessen your ability to fend off and/or reason with hell-sent demons bent on eating me—"

"I told you, I can't do a goddamn thing if it wants to eat you, all right?"

"You don't sound like you took anything."

"Not that it's your business, but he gave me a hit of amyl nitrite. The effect's almost gone now. And I cannot believe you followed me here!"

"Were you going to fuck them?"

"Until _you_ came along."

Chase took a left out of the alley and House followed, even though it was in the opposite direction of his car.

"And you weren't worried about them being eaten by said hell-sent demon, too?"

"Both of them are complete tossers—I know for a fact that one of them abuses his boyfriend, and the other deals drugs."

"And you were gonna fuck them? Oh, real smart."

"In an alley, surrounded by other people—and then I leave, go home, and never see them again. How is any of this your business?"

"Since _your_ overprotective demon friend is trying to kill me!"

"What do you want me to do, House? Pray a rosary for you?"

"We're going back to your place, and I'm spending the night."

"Fuck," Chase muttered.

House was pleased that he'd at least stopped putting up a fight and accepted his fate. That should make things easier.

And then Chase stopped walking, having reached his car.

House raised an eyebrow.

"I'll see you back at the apartment, then," Chase sighed. "You're on the couch again."

"By the way," House said, waving his cane at Chase's car, "what's with the heap of shit car? Is a Toyota really the best you can do?"

"Well, we can't all drive around in little red penises," Chase sniped.

oOo

"So you don't keep any alcohol around the house, but you'll take poppers from drug dealers who abuse their boyfriends?" House asked, while Chase unlocked the door.

"Fuck off," Chase replied.

He swung the door open and stepped inside. House followed quickly, shutting the door behind him and locking it, for a good measure.

"Drugs are bad," he said, returning to his conversation with Chase. "Drugs kill people."

"I cannot believe you just said that."

"You're setting a bad example for young gay men everywhere, you know."

"I'm going to bed, before the irony starts making me nauseous."

"Did you know that every time you get high a kitten dies?"

oOo

House was awoken that night by… Yes. Yes, that was a claw at his throat. Quite a large one, too.

Oh dear.

He opened his mouth to speak—or perhaps squeal like a girl, he wasn't sure—when the claw pushed against his windpipe and he snapped his mouth closed with an audible shut.

"You do not touch him," the thing said in a wet, quiet voice. Its yellow eyes were gleaming in the darkness, set in a face-like structure mutilated with spiky shadows. "He needs to be pure. He needs to be alone."

House wondered if this was the same speech that Jamie had gotten before his throat had been ripped open.

"You helped keep him pure," the thing said in the same wet, quiet voice.

Why wasn't its voice waking up Chase? Why wasn't he coming in here to help, to get this thing off of House, to tell it to go the fuck away?

"He needs to be alone. He needs to be free to join with the other."

Seriously, where the fuck was Chase?

"As long you help keep him pure, you live."

It took a moment to register.

Then House was so startled at the words that he was opening his mouth and speaking, completely forgetting the claw at his throat.

"I live?"

"Do not speak!" it hissed angrily, pushing down on House's windpipe with such force that, for a moment, House was sure that the cartilage was going to give. "Silence! Silence!"

House tried not to gag.

It released some of the pressure on his throat and House, suddenly able to breathe again, fell back slightly with a gasp.

Where the _fuck_ was Chase?

"It is only with the other that he will fulfill his task," it said, much more calmly. "He needs to be pure. If you threaten that purity, you die. Preserve it, and live. "

And then House was sent flying back into darkness, only able to fight for a second before unconsciousness prevailed.

oOo

He woke to the sound of an electric toothbrush.

Less than forty-five seconds later (after searching for his cane, fighting off a bad back from the night on the couch, and swallowing two Vicodin), he was up and barging in on Chase in the bathroom.

"House!" Chase, who was thankfully clothed in boxers and a t-shirt, attempted to shoulder him out, but House had the advantage of not having a toothbrush in his mouth and easily won.

"I had a visit from your little demon-friend last night," he announced, sitting on the toilet.

Chase violently spat out his toothpaste, mostly missing the sink. "_What?"_

"It woke me up, we had a lovely conversation, and then it lulled me back to sleep with a demonic lullaby. One of the best nights I've had in years."

Chase blinked, and slowly shook his head, exhaling. "Very funny, House. Now get the hell out of my bathroom."

"I'm serious!" House insisted. "It kept going on about how you need to be _pure_ and _alone_."

""Pure and alone?" Chase repeated incredulously.

"While it held some big freaky claw to my throat. You can see—" House pushed himself up slightly, baring his throat for Chase. "See that? Do you think I did that to myself?"

Chase stared at House's throat for a long moment.

"I take it your demon-friend doesn't usually make social calls," House said.

"Can we not do this while I'm brushing my teeth?" Chase finally asked. "Go… make some coffee or something."

House wanted to argue, but thought better of it and left Chase to his teeth-brushing. He started the coffee maker, made himself toast, and was in the middle of rearranging the food in the cupboards when Chase finally deigned to emerge in a hideous sweatervest/tie combo. By this time, House had also gone over the mostly one-sided demonic conversation he'd had last night, several times over.

Chase took a mug and poured himself coffee without saying a word.

"What, no prayer before you drink?" House asked, as Chase raised the cup to his lips. "Bless us oh Lord, and these thy gifts, blah blah blah?

Chase eyed him, and then lowered the cup a bit and cast his eyes heavenward. "Dear God, thank you for the coffee. Please get this asshole out of my kitchen. Amen." And then he took a long drink.

Well, _someone_ wasn't a morning person.

"So, let's talk demons," House said, sitting down at the little table in the kitchen.

Chase frowned. "But we have to go to work."

"I'm the boss, you twit. We can go in whenever I want. Now sit down."

Reluctantly, Chase sat.

"So here's the lay-down," House said, while Chase was mid-sip. "Demon-thing decided that since I helped protect your maidenhood last night, I should continue to beat off your suitors with a stick until you meet your soul mate, and the you're gonna finally get laid and do some task, and everything will be hunky dory."

Personally, he thought that he'd done a pretty good job of summing it all up.

Chase, however, looked like he didn't even know where to begin. His mouth opened twice before actual words starting coming out.

"I don't _have_ a maidenhood."

Pause.

"Are you sure this wasn't a dream?"

House wordlessly pointed to his neck.

Chase set down his mug, slouching back in his chair with an irritated expression on his face. "So… What, now _you're_ going to prevent me from having sex, too?"

"I'm a little fuzzy on the part where you meet your true love while essentially living as a deaf, blind eunuch, but yeah. That seems to be the idea." House paused. "There was also mention of death if I didn't follow through, so, you know, I'm not just doing this out of the goodness of my heart."

"That's bullshit," Chase snapped, practically slamming down his mug.

"All right, so there's a little bit of goodness invol—"

"I'm sick of it. I'm fucking sick of it. You're not going to tell me who I can and can't have sex with, House. Sorry. It's not going to happen."

House snorted. "You will if you value my life."

"You know what I value?" Chase said, his voice rising in volume. "The right to make my own fucking decisions. Ten years! Ten years I haven't been able to date, or fuck, or even _wink_ at anyone!"

"Did I mention the long, pointy teeth? And the big claw against my throat?"

"I'm not doing it," Chase said stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest and sitting back in his chair.

House scowled but decided to switch tactics.

"Okay, I'm gonna let your irrationality simmer for a while and move on to the fact that your little pile of newspaper clippings indicate that you've killed, like, forty men. That's four men per year, but you've had four in the last month. Why the hell are you suddenly on a sex binge?"

Chase gave him a dark look, but answered anyway. "Well, Jamie was your fault and Peter McGirr was an accident. Most of them are accidents. And when I do decide to fuck complete tossers behind clubs, they usually don't even get reported missing so there's nothing to cut out of the paper."

"Do you have any idea how unbelievably twisted you sound? Like, do you hear the words coming out of your mouth at all?"

"House, you can't even keep it together now," Chase said acidly. "You wouldn't have made it if someone had thrown in a demon to kill all your prospective love interests. You'd be a babbling mess on the psych ward."

House snorted. "Right. Your life is so hard that you're justified in killing people. I haven't heard that one before."

"I don't kill people."

"Just the ones that deserve it."

"Whatever!" Chase cried, throwing his hands up. "Look, the point is, you're not going to dictate my life any more than you and that motherfucking demon already do."

"Oh yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Chase, for fuck's sake, this is not the time for a temper tantrum."

"You don't understand what it's like," Chase muttered, sitting back and crossing his arms. He glared. "You have no idea."

"Oh, excellent. I always wanted a little emo teenager on my team, I don't know why I didn't just pick one up in the clinic years ago…"

Chase stood up. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," House said immediately. "Who said you could leave?"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about! Christ, I have to get out of here…"

"And go where?" House demanded. He stood up, but Chase was already putting his shoes on.

Physically, there was no way he was going to win this. Chase was strong and angry and had the added benefit of not having a bum leg. But House was desperate.

"Seriously, at least tell me where you're going."

"Why? So you can follow me?"

"Does the fact that I could _die_ mean nothing to you? At all? I'm sure Mummy and Daddy must have taught you to care about other people, somewhere in between coming home from work and hitting the bar."

"Yeah, I can't imagine why I wouldn't want to save your life."

Chase had shrugged on his coat and taken his keys out of his pocket. He was leaving. He was actually leaving.

House made a grab.

"Get _off!_" Chase bellowed, yanking himself away as he pushed, sending House against the wall. He raised a shaking hand. "Don't—don't fucking touch me. I'm leaving, and I'll flirt if I fucking well want to. And fuck you!"

And with that, he pulled the door open and strode out, leaving House in the kitchen with a feeling of dread growing in his stomach.

He was screwed. Oh. So. Screwed.

oOo

Much later that day, House was getting drunk in his office and singing quite pleasantly until Wilson came in and ruined it all.

"Garbage for you, and garbage for meeeee… The garbage dumps of New Jooooiiiiiisey."

Wilson came in about this point, but House kept going. He was pretty sure Wilson knew this song, and hoped that he would join in.

"When I diiiiiiieeee, bury me loooooooooow…"

"House? What—are you drinking?"

"Where I can heeeaaar the petrol—"

"House!"

And then Wilson snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels out of his hand, ruining it all.

"I was singing!" House said indignantly, holding out a hand so that Wilson could give it back.

"Are you _crazy?_" Wilson hissed. "This is a hospital! It's the middle of the day! Do you know how fast you'd be out on your ass if Cuddy saw you?"

House sniggered. "Cuddy's ass. It's nice."

"At least tell me you didn't take any extra Vicodin," Wilson sighed, after a moment's pause.

"Hey, I didn't even think about that—good idea!" House tried to get to the pills in his pocket, but he no sooner had them out than Wilson was snatching them away.

"I don't think so."

"I'm going to _die_," House said miserably, putting his head in his hands.

"House, what the hell is going on?" Wilson asked.

House looked up, the morose feeling only intensifying as Wilson's face came into view. "I'm going to die. It's gonna eat me, and I'm gonna die."

"What?"

"The demon."

"A… demon?"

"I told you about it the other day. And you know what, Wilson? You know what? If you think I'm a selfish dickhead, you should meet Robert Chase some time. Maybe you've seen him around, he's got an Australian accent, mismatched clothing and stupid hair?"

"Uh—"

"See, it told me that I had to keep him pure—_pure_, it's total bullshit—and what does the little shit do? He runs off to fuck some guy instead of going to work. He's out there fucking, and I'm going to die!"

"House, Chase is here at the hospital. He's been working in the ICU all day."

What?

"He what?" House said out loud. "I'll kill him!"

"How about you stay seated for now?" Wilson suggested.

"I need to buy that gun," House announced.

"Right."

"Probably won't work, but it'd be good to have. And I need to not be so drunk."

"You just work on that last one for now."

"I should get a leash for him."

Wilson frowned. "For who? Chase?"

"Oh yeah," House said, nodding. "He's a slut."

"Um. And you care why?" Wilson asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because he's got to be _puuuuuure_," House answered, drawling the last word to the point where it stretched out for almost a full second. "Load of shit, if you ask me."

"Okay, you know what, House? I think you need to lie down on your couch."

House groaned. "Nooooo…"

"Yes. C'mon, onto the couch."

"You hate me. Why do you hate me?"

"I hate because I love, now get up."

"Wilson, I'm going to die."

"Get up."

"Wilson…"

But Wilson, using some superpower or another, got him on the couch anyway. Stupid, persuasive Wilson.

oOo

House woke up alive and well (though slightly hungover), so he assumed that Chase had not fucked anyone, flirted with anyone, or so much as winked at anyone in the time that he'd been out. He had a feeling that, unlike Peter McGirr and Jamie, the demon wasn't going to give him a day or two's reprieve before ripping his throat out. Oh, no. He was _special_. He'd been expressly told by a hell-sent demon that he needed to look out for Chase.

He was, however, slightly disgruntled that Chase had led him to believe that he would be spending the day 'ruining his purity' or whatever, and so he decided to track Chase down to remind him who was boss around here.

"We need to talk," he announced as he walked up to Chase.

Chase, who was in the process of fastening an IV drip, glanced over. "In a minute."

"We have nurses to do that kind of stuff, you know."

"One's on break, and the other's been floating between here and the ER all day," Chase said with a shrug. "So it's just me."

"Wow. It's like they think you're a real doctor or something."

Chase rolled his eyes. "Crazy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, almost as crazy as having a demon giving you death threats, isn't it?"

House smirked as Chase winced.

"All right, look," Chase sighed. He paused, glanced around the ICU, and then let go of the IV and leaned back against the wall. "Look, last night, with the club, won't happen again. I don't do it that often, anyway. But you're not going to be spending the night at my place again and you're going to stop following me around."

"Ah, wrong. See, you don't have the best track record when it comes to not flirting with anyone." Chase made a noise like a protest, but House kept going. "Accidents or not, you've got a pile of fifty bodies sitting behind you that are not helping you make your case at all. You clearly need a little more motivation to inspire you to keep your dick in your pants."

"Oh, what? Am I going to get a sticker chart? A biscuit for every day I don't flirt with someone?"

"You're going to stop acting like a five year old, first of all," House snapped. "I liked you better when you were subservient and spineless. Bring that Chase back."

"You want me to stop acting like a child?" Chase asked.

House raised his eyebrows.

"You stop sleeping at my place, and you start trusting me to lead my own life, and I'll stop acting like a child. Deal?"

"Uh, hello? I left you alone for, like, twenty minutes yesterday and I found you in the middle of a threesome."

"How many times do I have to tell you—it won't happen again! I promise!"

"I don't trust you."

Chase set his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look. I don't actually want you to die because of me, okay? I would be really…"

"Sad?" House suggested. "Distraught? Lonely?"

"Annoyed," Chase said flatly.

House rolled his eyes. "Well, that's reassuring."

"Just trust that I'm not going to purposely go out and get you eaten, okay?" Chase said irritably.

"Well, maybe not purposely. But your track record—"

"Oh, hang my fucking track record!" Chase cried, throwing his hands up in the air. "The stakes have gone up, House. Don't you think I'm going to be more careful, now?"

House shrugged. "Well, sure. For a while. But there's no guillotine hanging over _your_ head, is there?"

"Do you think I _asked_ to have your life on my shoulders? If you had never followed me to that club and stopped me from fucking those two guys—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you under the impression that I like being your nursemaid? That _I _asked for this bullshit?"

"Yeah, you did," Chase said, crossing his arms again. "Because you couldn't keep your nose out of my business. You just _had_ to know if I was gay. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you put your own personal curiosity before everyone else's lives!"

"Chase, that's what I do," House said through gritted teeth. "You know that. You knew that when I hired you."

"Oh, so this is all my fault for interviewing here in the first place?" Chase asked incredulously.

"Frankly, yes."

"Oh my God. I cannot believe you."

"You should have just stayed in the seminary. You know what that would have meant? Celibacy! That thing, where you never have sex ever again! And you know what that would have meant? Fifty people who didn't have their throats ripped out by an insane, over-protective demon!"

"I have a right to lead my life!"

"Not when you kill other people by doing it, you don't."

"Fuck you. Just—fuck you, House."

"That's your best retort? Really? Why don't you—"

"Dr. Chase?"

They both turned and saw a young nurse holding a stack of charts. She looked slightly irritated to have to interrupt them to be heard.

"Uh, yeah. So there's four new admits coming from the ER and we've only got two beds open. What do you want to do?" she asked, eyebrow cocked.

Chase sighed, and then turned to House. "Go… sit in a chair or something, okay? Let me do my job in peace."

"I'll be watching you," House said threateningly, before turning to find a chair to sit in.

But he knew that he couldn't just follow Chase around forever.

Could he?

oOo

"You are not following me home," Chase said flatly, when House attempted to do just that.

"How do I know you're going home?" House asked, eyes narrowed.

"Because I'm telling you that's where I'm going, and you're going to trust that I'm not lying to you."

House paused and considered it for about half a second. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. I'm sleeping on your couch again."

"No, you're not," Chase said. He was sounding increasingly irritated. "I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"I don't see what the big deal is. It's not like you're going to do anything but eat and then sleep," House tried, attempting reason instead of brute force. "You won't even know I'm there."

"That isn't the _point_," Chase bit out.

House held on to his patience through sheer force of will. "It's not like I actually think you're going to accidentally impale someone on your dick in the walk from your car to your apartment, okay? Even you're not that big of a slut. Think of it as doing me a favor, to set my worried mind at ease."

"So I'm going to sacrifice any control that I have over my life, and my personal living space and privacy, because you'll sleep better at night?" Chase asked.

"Because I'd like to know that I'll wake up in the morning, thank you very much," House snapped.

"House, I swear—I promise you, you'll wake up in the morning, if you'd just leave me the hell alone for ten seconds—"

"Excuse me if your history doesn't exactly inspire me to put my life in your hands."

Chase let out a frustrated, snarl-like noise.

House gritted his teeth. "Look. There's nothing either of us can do about this right now, so until something changes, we're going to have to make sacrifices. You're not the only person in this situation anymore."

"I've already made sacrifices," Chase said flatly. "It's your turn. Sacrifice your fucking pride and trust me."

"I don't trust anyone," House replied testily.

"You're not following me home."

"Yes, I am."

"House, we both know that if I run, you won't be able to catch me," Chase said, matter-of-fact and terse. "And if I wanted to take you in a fight, I could do that too. You can't force me into anything."

"There are other ways of controlling you besides brute force," House threatened. "I could screw your career over six ways to Sunday, and don't think that I won't."

Chase went still. He spoke only after a moment of prolonged silence. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Try me."

There was another pause, and then Chase sighed, shaking his head. "I'm going home. Don't follow me. I won't let you in."

House didn't believe him. However, after an hour of shouting obscenities at Chase's windows and being threatened with the police by two separate neighbors, House was forced to admit defeat. He headed back to his own apartment for the first time in ages, and didn't sleep a wink.

oOo

He showed up at Chase's apartment the following morning, determined to bring things to a head. It was early enough that it was still dark out, but the streetlights lit things well enough.

"This ends now," he announced as Chase opened the door to leave.

"Of course you're here," Chase muttered. "Silly me, hoping that you'd have waited until I got to the bloody hospital."

"You had your temper tantrum, now it's time to get up off the ground and start acting like an adult," House went on, ignoring him. "You've got to accept the way things are. Yeah, your life sucks, and there's nothing you can do about. Deal with it. Move on."

"It was fine until you came along," Chase sniped.

House exhaled and gave him a look. Chase leaned against the door to his apartment and crossed his arms, glaring right back.

In the end, though, it was Chase who broke the silence.

"You're never going to trust me, are you?" he sighed.

"I don't trust people," House said with a shrug. He wondered if they were finally going to get somewhere. "So, yeah. Never would be a safe bet."

"And my only option is to let you follow me around everywhere, making sure that I'm a good little eunuch?" Chase continued.

House nodded. "Pretty much. Unless you want me to completely ruin your career and any hope you ever had of paying off your student loans."

Chase inhaled, closing his eyes, and exhaled. Slowly.

"If it helps, I… probably… shouldn't have gotten into your business," House said, with difficulty. Christ, that had almost been an apology. He felt a little dizzy.

Chase didn't look very appeased, though, His eyes sprang open and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"No, you fucking shouldn't have. Like my life wasn't compromised enough before _you_ interfered. At least I had some semblance of control over things, but you had to come barging in and ruin everything, just to sate your goddamn curiosity—and now where's it gotten me? You won't fucking leave me alone! If you had it your way, we'd be living together and working together, and I'd never be…" He stopped, apparently too angry for words.

"I'm sure you have excellent taste in curtains," House offered.

"I can't do it," Chase said, shaking his head. He sounded slightly crazed now, and had clearly not heard House's last remark. "I can't. There's only so much I can give up, and this is where I'm drawing the line."

House felt a stirring of panic. "C'mon Chase. Suck it up and take it like a man. You don't have any other choice."

"Yeah, I do."

Chase's eyes focused, directly on House.

House swallowed. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not a good idea. Let's just listen to what the big scary demon said and—"

"I have a choice," Chase interrupted, pushing himself away from the door, eyes not leaving House's face. "I always have a choice."

"Not this time—"

And those were the last words he managed to get out before Chase was kissing him.

"_If you threaten that purity, you die."_

Panic exploded inside of him and he tried to jerk away, but Chase was gripping his shoulders solidly, pressing him back against the railing, mashing their mouths together and forcing his tongue in, body flush against House's. Fuck! Fuck, he had to get Chase off of him before the demon saw, before it thought that House was threatening Chase's purity—he was pushing, elbowing, but Chase was too strong—he was going to die, this was going to get him killed—

Finally, he got in a good push and a whack with his cane, and Chase went stumbling back with a gasp.

"Fuck!" House shouted, doubling over and wiping at his mouth. "Fuck, what the _fuck _did you do? Fuck!"

Chase stood a few feet away, breathing hard. There was a slight smile on his face.

House's heart was pounding fast, too fast, and blind terror flashed through his veins like electricity. Oh God, oh God, oh God… He was dead. He was so dead. It had told him not to touch Chase, not to threaten his purity, and now—

And then, ever so slowly, ever so deliberately, Chase winked.

Somewhere to his right, House heard a scuttling noise.

He screamed.

oOo

Three days after the disappearance of Dr. Gregory House, Dr. Robert Chase left the States for Brazil. Two weeks later he met Dr. Diego Jamie de Santiago, the love of his life and soul mate, and together they cured the world of HIV, malaria and Republicans.

Overall, the demon considered things a success.

THE END

**Songs Used (in order) **

If You Were Gay ~ Avenue Q

My Whole Family ~ Bo Burnham

What What (In the Butt) ~ South Park

It's O.K. 2 B Gay ~ Tomboy

More Effeminate Than You ~ Robin Black

The Rolling Mills of New Joisey ~ Roberts and Barrand


End file.
